I kept this a secret for a few days, because it felt like a betrayal to write it down. Surprisingly, the party involved unlocked the figurative lockbox and all can be revealed.
There is a lot of cursing in this one. And seriously, enough TMI that I kept it under wraps. So think about that. If you have any human pity, stop now.
................
Last Saturday I said to Gary, "The only thing I want to do today is go see Mom's house." The carpet, the paint, I wanted to see it.
"Let's get breakfast first," he said. "Cracker Barrel is on the way."
I am an unprincipled whore for Cracker Barrel. There was some lawsuit filed against them and I should hate them on principle, but: grits. Plus you can essentially create a buffet on your table for less than ten bucks. I ordered eggs, pork chops, biscuits, gravy, and grits. Gary had a bacon cheese omelet. And grits.
We left, and about three blocks before Mom's house, Gary said, "Ow. I need to find a bathroom."
He usually hangs out at restaurants for twenty minutes after a meal, "digesting." That's what he calls it, "digesting." Not doing anything, waiting to see if everything stays put. He'd skipped that step.
I said, "There's a bathroom at that supermarket. Or we can use the one at Mom's. There's even toilet paper there, and if you need more I'll go and get it."
So we chose to white-knuckle it to Mom's, where we unbuckled and I hit the garage door opener.
Nothing.
I went up to the garage and turned the door key. Usually one turn activates the door. Nothing. And I have no other key.
Commence the screaming from Gary. "What is WRONG with you WHY the FUCK would you bring me here YOU KNOW I HAVE TO" (whispered) "poop." (Again, screaming) "WHAT is WRONG with your BRAIN! SHIT! Why do you only HAVE ONE KEY! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING DO YOU HEAR ME I HAVE TO poop YOU FUCKER SHIT! SHIT! Ah ... damnit. FUCK FUCK FUCK."
During this I was "searching for another key," and then jogging to the back door where I knew the realtor had put a lockbox. Not that I had a combinaton, I just didn't want to be screamed at in the front yard, even though he was genteel enough to whisper "poop." But, by the time he got to "damnit," well, you know there was no hope. The deed was done.
So, we piled into the car - well, I piled, Gary positioned himself daintily, all the time continuing with the screaming, screaming all the way up the street and blaming ME for doing this to him. (Because that was my plan all along.) He decided to clean himself up at the bowling alley one block from Mom's, while I waited in the car.
I waited patiently, because who among us has not been in a similar situation? Granted, usually one is alone and not screaming into a sympathetic ear. One is on the express lanes on Highway 70 and unable to make an exit, and one has to pull over, remain in the car and employ the four quart red tupperware bowl one has in the back seat because one never cleans out ones tiny Honda CRX. Then one must choose between storing a red tupperware bowl of crap in ones car during the workday or accessorizing the red bowl of crap with ones red scarf and leaving it on the side of the highway. Where it stayed for five days. Who among us, I ask you, who among us.
So, I spent my time in the car calling the realtor for the lockbox combination. Unbeknownst to me, Gary was in the bowling alley bathroom and his luck had not changed. First of all, there were no doors on any of the stalls. Happily, he was alone. Sadly, all this happened after a three-day bowel backlog, so when he pulled off his pants some poo escaped and fled across the floor. He had to throw away his underwear entirely. And, by the way, there was no toilet paper. In that stall, Or the next. OR THE NEXT and then my husband, FACED with leaving a mess for the janitor, walked half naked around the bathroom scooping up poop in his bare hands. It was at that moment I decided to call.
He answered with: "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME I AM IN HERE COVERED IN (poop)." Click. He hung up.
Fuck you, I thought, I have the combination to the lockbox, I'm going back to Mom's, and you can just look for me when when you come out. I'm not taking this abuse all day.
I walked back to Mom's, where I entered the combination, and while some little thumb latch clicked in response, I was unable to pull the lockbox off the door handle. I tried and tried. I really did. If you haven't had occasion to use a lockbox ever in nearly 49 years, it looks more like a combination lock than a "box." With a key inside. Whatever. I know now. So I stayed outside.
Gary got out of Bowling Bathroom Hell and called. I said "Hello."
'WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU WHAT ARE YOU THINKING I AM COVERED IN poop AND I HAVE TO GO TAKE A SHOWER AND THEN I COME OUT AND YOU AREN'T HERE WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU -" I hung up on him this time. Because really, is the yelling necessary?
He called back and said it would take him an hour to get home (no), then an hour to shower (maybe), then an hour to get back (no), and I would just have to wait wherever I was for four hours (rounding up). I said fine, I'd take the forty-five minutes I knew he'd actually be gone and walk to his parents. Bye. Then I sat on my butt on Mom's front porch for five minutes.
Until my stomach hurt.
Gary must have felt my intensines cramp from miles away because he called to say he was relenting and would be back to pick me up. And because I KNOW how peristalsis works, I set off immediately for the bowling alley.
Of course, I know you can't let your guard down a second, so I lied to my bowels and said the bowling alley was ten blocks away, and there would be a line, and I might need to get a key. I was nice enough to call Gary and say I was heading for the bowling alley (or bowel-ing alley) and I didn't want him to get to Mom's and find me not there.
Though Gary warned me off the bowling alley, may I say the women's bathroom had many doors and a great amount of paper, and I was there and was seated well before my spinchter found out I'd lied.
I was still pissed about the yelling, so after I walked halfway across the parking lot toward Gary's car, I decided to stay put and let him drive to me, which he did. Surprisingly, he was done screaming and surprisingly, the car did not smell, and except for the terra cotta splotches on his hands I might never have known anything was amiss. He had washed the palms of his hands, but given the bathroom was not exactly spotless (no toilet paper, you recall) he wanted to leave. Plus, he had a rash on the palms of his hands now from the nasty bowling alley soap, my delicate flower.
So, he told me the whole sad tale, and we drove the e-Coli mobile back home, where the sight of his jeans made me back away in fear. Poor guy. I sympathized and said if he took a shower it would be like it never happened and we could forget about it and NEVER SPEAK OF IT AGAIN.
After he showered he came out and apologized for yelling. We washed the jeans twice and lysoled the car seat. As for never speaking of it again, he has not stopped talking about it. ("Which jeans are these? Are these my POOP jeans?") Last night he asked why this had not been up on the blog.
I was shocked. "I would never betray you that way." (Pause) "I felt guilty just telling Caroline and Marcia."
"Nah, it's okay. It's good blogfodder." So here you are.
I am laughing so incredibly hard right now :D
Posted by: Leprrkan | April 09, 2011 at 05:53 PM
But for the grace of God there go I and Santa.
We have both gotten to the point with these sudden urges that we are contemplating wearing depends when we go out. Breakfast is a particular culprit, doubtless all the fat.
Posted by: Zayrina | April 09, 2011 at 06:19 PM
It was funnier when you told it, pausing before adding an even worse detail than the last.
Seriously, y'all, I think Marcia and I laughed for 30 minutes straight during this lunch.
Posted by: Caroline | April 09, 2011 at 08:08 PM
That's the last time I ever appropriate abandoned Tupperware containers. Even if they're empty.
Posted by: Big Dot | April 09, 2011 at 08:12 PM
Oh. My. God.
This story was SO worth the wait! I feel so bad for Gary, but he was definitely right. It's fantastic blogfodder!
Posted by: Faythe | April 09, 2011 at 08:20 PM
Bowel-ing Alley had me laughing hysterically. And POOP jeans!!!! So funny.
Bless Gary's heart for allowing you to share. It just makes ya'll more lovable when you share these TMI filled stories.
I'm never stepping foot inside a Cracker Barrel again, lest I suffer a similar fate!!! (I've had moments of my own, but I'm not sharing the details!)
Posted by: Kristie | April 09, 2011 at 09:58 PM
Now I remember why I'm divorced. All in all, it doesn't seem so bad.
Posted by: Becs | April 10, 2011 at 07:03 AM
Oh dear. I am certain that my husband would divorce me if I ever posted something like this. Gary is a saint. Even if...
Posted by: magpie | April 10, 2011 at 12:41 PM
I must say breathing was rather difficult for half the lunch hour and quite some time afterward. Gary's a good sport, which is why we love him.
Posted by: Mershy | April 10, 2011 at 08:14 PM
Leprrkan - You must have been in a similar situation!
Zayrina - I think Depends are for smaller issues. But, maybe they are like Poise pads: light, medium, heavy flow.
Caroline - And that's why I call you heartless cows.
Big Dot - yes! This one was a very distinctive red one, so watch out for that, but that probably holds for all containers.
Faythe - Surely Ryan had pooped himself? Share.
Kristie - I am sure we will never go to a Cracker Barrel again. Instead we will probably take to shaking our fist at it when we pass.
Becs - Well, yes, you have to put up with their shit.
Magpie - I am astonished he volunteered the release on this! Really, I'd never had posted this, in fact I refused to put it in writing just for Marcia's use.
Mershy - He is a good sport. Though I would have been happy enough to have just shared with you girls.
Posted by: TheQueen | April 10, 2011 at 10:45 PM
The only time I know of where Ryan pooped himself was before my time with him. He was in his early twenties, he'd been out drinking a lot with his buddies that night and had the foresight to know he'd be a mess in the morning, so as soon as he got home he got naked, put himself in the bathtub/shower and did all his puking/pooping/passing out in there (his brother found him there the next morning). Since he didn't have any pants on and didn't make a mess that needed to be cleaned up (aside from the tub, but it all went down the drain), I don't know if this actually counts. Your call.
Posted by: Faythe | April 11, 2011 at 04:05 PM
Faythe - I does have a disappointing air of self-control. Did he clean it up himself? Because then it isn't humilating at all.
Posted by: TheQueen | April 11, 2011 at 08:50 PM
I pooped by the mailbox once.
Posted by: Hattie | April 11, 2011 at 11:50 PM
Every time I come and read something I always think, "Best.post.ever." and it's true...they're all greeeeat! This one was especially hilarious. Tell Gary that they sell little rolls of to-go toilet paper in the travel section at Target and maybe he needs some...just fyi ;) hahaha!
Posted by: Autumn | April 12, 2011 at 11:07 AM
Yep, he did clean his own mess up.
Posted by: Faythe | April 12, 2011 at 11:49 AM
Hattie - Yes, but did you clean it up? Or did you just pretend it wasn't there?
Autumn- Wow - to go TP? I might need that. Everyone needs that.
Faythe - Well, then it doesn't count. Tell him to try again.
Posted by: TheQueen | April 12, 2011 at 11:59 PM
This post has me coming of lurkdom to say THANK YOU for such a great belly laugh!! The laughing and tears started when he whispered "poop" for the first time and they continued well after he asked "Are these my POOP jeans?"!! What a great story and the worst (or best, depending on your perspective) part is, I can see this happening to my husband and I in the near future. Thanks for forging a path for us!
Posted by: Debbie A. | April 17, 2011 at 11:00 PM
Debbie - (Hi, Debbie!) I am sorry, but it will happen. And you must unlurk again to tell us about it. Your husband doesnt have to know.
I remember the days I didnt think this skit was funny:
http://www.hulu.com/watch/10308/saturday-night-live-oops-i-crapped-my-pants
Posted by: TheQueen | April 18, 2011 at 12:02 AM